


Distractions

by abigail89



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-14
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk--damn him!--distracts Leonard from his studies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to magicofisis and thalialunacy for their beta work and read through and encouragement.

"Bones! Booooo-nes!" A fist pounds on the door. "C'mon, man. Lemme in!"

Leonard McCoy, M.D., Ph.D. and Starfleet Medical Academy 3rd year, sighs as he tosses the pen into the ditch of the textbook he's been reading. Tiredly, he scrubs his hand over his face, grimacing at the day-old stubble and a stubborn zit on his chin that's decided to head up during the long day. He'd love nothing more than to just slide into bed and sleep for a couple of lifetimes, but the exam on diseases of alien cultures in the Beta Quadrant, all seventeen of them, is due to start in exactly ten hours and thirty-five—no, thirty-four—minutes, and he's only read up on ten of them. True, he treated a case of Norian flu at the Academy hospital the other day—one disease learned—but the Norian culture had the most spectacular array of parasitic infections in that quadrant, and he finds that fascinating.

"Fuck, Bones. Open the door. I know you're iiiiin there."

But no. He has to deal with a drunk Jim Kirk: Kirk who has an Astrophysics III exam the day after tomorrow, the one he's been bitching about for days now. Yet, when Bones suggests he settle in to study in his room, even offering to brew a pot of Jamaican Blue coffee, Kirk decides to take off for one of the other dorms.

"Come ON, Bones. Lemme in, man."

Leonard sighs and rises from his chair, thinking of ways he can quickly get rid of him Or, at least get him into the room so had can pass out and shut the fuck up. He wrenches open the door.. . .

. . .and receives a fist in the chest, then an armload of drunk Jim. "Hey, Bones," Kirk says jovially, grinning up at him. "What'cha doing?"

Leonard has to focus for a second. Even stupid drunk, Jim is prettier than any man his age should be. "Studying. I am, like you, a student. Though sometimes I think you completely miss that point."

"Studying? When the party of the century is going on down in the main dorm? You have _got_ to check this out." Jim struggles to stand up straight, but fails miserably.

"No, I don't. And neither do you. For god's sake, Jim. Just look at you." Leonard pulls him over to the bed, and dumps him unceremoniously into it. "You stink. You reek. You've got something on your shirt—"

"What?" Jim tugs on his black Iowa Hawkeyes t-shirt. "Well, fuck. Would'ja look at that. I'm wearing the dip—"

"And you look like you've pissed on yourself." Leonard is beyond disgusted. "And now you're in my bed. I just changed the sheets," he growls.

"Awww, but you love me, Bones." He makes kissy noises. "C'mon. Give me a little kiss."

Leonard freezes. One of his favorite fantasies—whilst drunk _and_ sober—is playing out before his very eyes in real time. Jim Kirk--pretty, vivacious, annoying, sexy Jim Kirk is lolling on his bed, begging to be kissed. By him.

Except that's got be the most insane thing his over-active libido has ever foisted upon him. Yes, he admitted to himself nearly a year ago that Jim was not just his best friend, but one extremely attractive man. And it wasn't just the looks. He's cute—oh, fuck yes --in that boy-becoming-a-man sort of way. And his body is to die for: slender and lithe, very nicely muscled without being too much so; sandy brown hair, blue eyes—hell, he's much better looking than Leonard's ex could ever hope to be, even with $5000 worth of the world's most expensive cosmetics, hair dye job and clothing.

It's not just the looks, but the whole thing. Jim is outgoing, full of life, mischievous and flirty, something he himself used to be in his younger days. But life, divorce, fatherhood, responsibility all conspired to rob him of the privilege of acting on impulse, of pursuing his desires rather than his needs. And right now, what he needed to be doing was studying for a goddamn alien disease exam rather than following Jim Kirk down a rabbit-hole of ill-advised sex and drunkenness. Especially the sex part.

"Christ almighty," he growls. "I am _not_ going to give you a kiss. _Though that is precisely what I want to do._ "And you are not going to stay in my bed---"

"Why not?" Jim says cheekily. "You changed the sheets and everything. What's the good of clean sheets if you're not going to use them for fun things?" He gives Leonard a lascivious grin.

"Because I plan to use my clean sheets to sleep on, and right now anything fun, especially with you, would be a spectacularly bad idea," Leonard responds, his heart skipping a beat as he lies with aplomb. "I have work to do, and rounds in the morning."

Jim sits up, still grinning. "Oh, come on. Just one drink. Loosen up! Okay, okay." Jim giggles, and places a flushed hand on Leonard's arm. (Leonard breathes a prayer of thanks that Jim is too drunk to notice he shivers at the touch.) "Come with me. Check out the party, just for a few minutes. There's some bitching good music, and someone filched a couple of bottles of Saurian brandy from the last ambassador's party." Jim squeezes his arm. "I know you cannot resist Saurian brandy."

For a moment, a brief, shining moment, Leonard wavers. It _would_ be fun to nip down to a party, see some of his classmates, be carefree if but for a brief time, but then ten minutes would stretch into a half-hour and then most likely another hour. . .

"No. Why go to some drunken, stinkin' mess of a party when I have my own stash of Saurian brandy?" Leonard says, relieved that he's come up with a plausible excuse to not follow Jim anywhere that's likely to get him into a world of trouble.

"Well, break it out!" Jim says enthusiastically. "Where're the glasses?" He stumbles his way to the small eating area, opens the door to the cabinet, and selects two clear tumblers, mismatched but usable. He sniffs one. "You even washed them."

"Of course I wash my glasses. You don't? Wait." He holds up a hand. "Don't tell me. You don't own any."

"Why should I? I eat the dining hall."

"Or here," Leonard grumbles. "I think I've fed you more often than you'd dragged your scrawny ass to the mess hall."

"You cooking's way better than the swill there anyway." Jim staggers into the wall, and juggles one of the tumblers. "Oh, shit!"

Leonard leaps forward and catches the falling glass. Turning to his left, he also catches a large armload of Jim. "For pete's sake," he sighs, struggling to manage everything. He catches Jim's bright eyes, and God help, him but he wants nothing more than to stare into them and be swept away by that ocean of blue. Then, Jim blinks.

"Thanks, Bones." Jim stands up and hands him the glass. "Umm, sorry about that."

"I'm the one who's going to be sorry," Leonard mutters as he places the glasses on the small table. "I have an exam in less than ten hours that's important, not just important to my 'career'"—he air quotes-- "in Starfleet, but as a physician. I need to know this stuff so that I can perform my duties as a medical officer." He wriggles the cork out of the dark bottle, and pours a generous measure into each glass, handing one to Jim. McCoy pulls the desk chair closer to the bed, where Jim is lounging. "There are several strains of flu-like diseases in the Beta Quadrant that are similar but require different treatment protocols. For example, Saurian flu is very much like many human flu strains that occur here on Earth. It also mimics the Andorian flu. What's more, three humanoid species can contract Saurian flu, but it reacts with each physiology differently, thus requiring different drugs to treat it."

He pauses, taking a deep swallow of the pale blue brandy; he takes the opportunity to shove Jim's feet off the bed. "And I have to know all that shit. Every detail. Because if I don't, and I diagnose a patient with human Influenza A, but he's a Betazoid who actually has Saurian flu, if I don't recognize the symptoms and know how to treat it, he could die. That doesn't just ruin my vaunted career with Starfleet; it deprives a family of a husband, a father, a son. And that"—he jabs a finger into Jim's sternum—"is why I cannot go to a fucking student party at the fucking student dorm and get fucking wasted."

He takes another gulp, and gasps as it hits the back of his throat with a little too much force. As he inhales he notices Jim is sitting on the edge of the bed and Jim's lips are far, far too close to his. And Jim's eyes are far, far too brilliantly blue.

"You know you're sexy when you shout?" Jim asks. He's not smiling, but has this . . . this indescribable look on his face, like he's trying to puzzle something through.

Leonard rolls his eyes.

"You're sexy all the time. Did you know," Jim says, touching the side of Leonard's face delicately with two fingers, "everyone thinks you are sex on legs?"

"Oh, for god's sake, that's just—"

"The truth," Jim finishes.

"I was going to say plain-ass stupid," Leonard says, resisting the urge to push his cheek into Jim's impossibly gentle hand. "Because it is."

"No, it isn't." Jim's face looms ever larger. Leonard wants to scoot the chair back because Jim is definitely violating his personal space. Unfortunately, he finds his feet are in league with his carefully hidden feelings, and don't move even as his brain screams at them. "Men. Women. A couple of instructors. Personally, I don't think you are. Sex on legs," he breathes as his hand curls around Leonard's neck. "I know you are."

A chorus of angelic voices singing "Hallelujah" fills Leonard's mind as Jim's lips touch his. He feels his body fall the few inches into the wall and as Jim's body covers his, the tip of a tongue runs along the seam of his lips. Leonard opens his mouth, just a little, and the tongue enters, gently at first, then more urgent. He gives in, and as he does, his traitorous feelings manifest in his imagination as a tribe of blue-skinned Andorians, dancing a fertility rite. Why the hell he's thinking about dancing Andorians is beyond him, but he rolls with it. Jim's fingers scrub through his hair as Jim deepens the kiss.

Tentatively, Leonard's hands find the curve of Jim's body: the right grips a shoulder. But his left sneaks farther down and finds a slender hipbone, and then slides around to grip a rounded ass. God, Jim has the finest ass in Starfleet. As he thinks about Jim's ass, he pulls it tighter to him, eliciting a very enticing, very erotic moan from its owner.

Leonard eases his grip. "No, no," Jim murmurs around the kiss, and he grinds his erection into Leonard's. _What is happening?_ flits through his mind.

_Nothing that you haven't dreamed about, fantasized about, wanted for two years!_ the dancing Andorians scream.

Jim is sliding and grinding into him in unmistakable thrusts. Leonard tries to push him away because if this keeps up, it's going to be embarrassing. _Grown men do not come in their pants._

_Oh, yes they do, especially if they want it badly enough!_ the Andorians retort. _Do it! Do it! Do it!_

Leonard is considering his next move, urged on by the wildly gyrating Andorian tribe, when all of a sudden, Jim's lips leave his. He opens his eyes and finds Jim staring at him with a wild look on his handsome face.

"Oh, crap!" Jim whispers. And then he turns and runs for the door, flings it open and disappears.

Leonard cannot move. He cannot think, even as the door bangs heavily into the wall and hangs open. So he does what any stunned, aroused man with a raging hard-on does: he palms his erection until he suffers the ignominy of coming his pants.

Leaning over, hands on thighs and breathing hard, Leonard cannot even begin to understand what just happened. _Did Jim Kirk kiss me?_

"Hey, McCoy!"

Leonard looks up, startled. It's his down-the-hall neighbor, Korack something-or-other. "You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Leonard manages to wheeze out.

"Ya don't lookit."

"Well, I am. Don't you have some studying to do?"

Korack something-or-other shrugs. "Whatever." He leaves.

That shakes Leonard out of his post-coital, post-orgasmic, post-what-the-fuck-just-happened stupor, and he crosses the room to shut the door. With the finality of the resounding BANG!, he finally recovers sensibility and shuffles off to the bathroom.

"Jim Kirk, what the fuck have you done to me?" he muses, kicking off damp trousers and boxers. As he relieves himself, he reaches into the shower and turns the handle all the way over to hot, allowing the steam to rise. He steps into the scalding stream, reliving that kiss, those lips, his eyes. Water sluices over his face and down his body; for the second time his cock stirs. "Oh, no you don't," he scolds.

He stands in the shower for far longer than regulation. At this moment, he doesn't give a flying damn about regulations and Starfleet officer rules and politeness. He needs clarity, dammit. Leonard shakes his head, trying to clear the frazzled remnants of the Andorian fertility frenzy. "I gotta stop going to those xeno-cultural exchange programs."

Finally, the shower stream slows to a trickle, indicating he's far past his recommended daily allotment of water. He steps out of the shower, dries off with a towel of questionable cleanliness, and begins to think again. His world, thrown off-kilter by the one man he thought he knew thoroughly, begins to right itself again as he dresses in clean boxers and t-shirt and thinks about what he needs to accomplish.

After making a pot of coffee in an old-fashioned drip coffee machine he found in the basement of the dorm, Leonard McCoy sits down at the desk, picks up the pen, and searches for the passage he'd been reading before he was so rudely, so excellently interrupted. _Saurian flu manifests on the first day after exposure in Saurians. Symptoms appear three days after exposure in Betazoids. . . ._


End file.
